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User blog:Squibstress/A Slant-Told Tale - Chapter 30
Title: A Slant-Told Tale Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Genre: Drama, romance Warning/s: Explicit sexual content; violence; abuse; alcoholism Published: 23/05/2017 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. Chapter Thirty 26 January1974 Molly adjusted her robe once again before stepping through the door of the cottage. It was too tight around the middle already, and she was only three months gone. Arthur grasped her hand suddenly, stopping her. “Are we doing the right thing?” he asked, his voice low and tight with anxiety. “Yes,” she said. “You’re sure?” “Yes.” They’d been over it a dozen times, Arthur arguing that she had no business joining a dangerous underground organization in her condition, Molly adamant that her condition had nothing to do with it. He was frightened, she knew that. Not for himself, but for her and their little family. A familiar, almost painful love welled up inside her for the boy she had married right out of Hogwarts, the one who had grown into a man before her eyes, who wanted to do a husband’s job and protect his wife and children from the terrifying things that were beginning to happen around them. She kissed him quickly, saying, “If you want to leave, you can. I’m sure Auntie Muriel would be glad to have you take Bill and Charlie. And I won’t think any less of you.” “You know that’s not it,” he said. “Shh,” she said, putting her fingers to his lips. “I know. But you’re right that it’s foolish for both of us to join. The boys—and this little one,” she added, patting her belly, “are going to need one of us at least. And I have to do this.” “Because of Ginevra.” Molly stayed silent for a moment. She still didn’t trust her voice not to crack when she thought about her dearest friend’s death. “Yes,” she whispered. Arthur took her hand and squeezed it. “She’s the last person who’d want you to put yourself in danger, Mols.” The warm feeling she’d had for her husband vanished. She pulled her hand away and wiped roughly at the tears that had formed in the corners of her eyes. Turning away from him, she said, “Let’s go in.” The dining room of Professor Jones’s small home was already nearly full, with witches and wizards pressing themselves back against the walls to make way for the new arrivals. Looking around the room, Molly recognised a few of the faces: Gideon, of course—he gave her a little wave when she looked in his direction—and Emmeline were standing across from her. There was Caradoc Dearborn, whom she knew by sight. She’d had a crush on him during her third and fourth years—just like half the girls at Hogwarts—thanks to his prowess at Quidditch, but she’d never really met him. She felt just a little guilty at the faint, half-remembered shiver of desire that went through her when she spied him. Standing across the room from her was Eamon Jones, who’d been her Defence teacher in her sixth-year N.E.W.T. class. She’d been sad when he left abruptly to care for his father, who’d apparently come over funny and been declared insane after inexplicably cursing three members of the Wizengamot during a routine budget meeting. Molly was pleased to see Professor Jones again, and thrilled a little when he smiled and bowed his head slightly, recognising her. There were days when it felt as if the Molly who’d been top of her class in Defence, Transfiguration, and Charms was just a dream she’d had in between Charlie’s feedings. She spied Arthur’s old friend, Benjy Fenwick, standing next to a tall witch at the far end of the table. “Wotcha, Molly!” he called to her, and she smiled back. “Here, madam, take my seat,” said a voice from behind her. She turned to see an elderly man struggling to rise from his chair, and a voice on her other side said, “Sit down, Bones. She can have my place.” Molly turned again to look into the unforgettable face of Alastor Moody, who was holding out a chair for her. She’d never seen his prosthetic eye close up before, although she’d seen him from time to time when he came to Hogwarts to visit Professor Dumbledore. Or that’s what everyone pretended. Molly had a suspicion that it wasn’t the headmaster Moody had been visiting on those occasional weekends and holidays. The other students had whispered and giggled whenever he came around, and called him “Mad-Eye”, which had infuriated her. He seemed a decent man, and he was a hero, two things which should have earned him the respect of his juniors, she thought. Even if he was a bit scary looking, what with the eye and the nose, and all those scars. “I’m fine where I am, Auror Moody, but thank you,” she said. “Take the chair, please,” he said. “Me da would roll over in his grave if he knew I’d let a woman with child stand while I sat.” She was startled. “How did you—” His good eye looked down at her hands, which had fluttered reflexively to her belly. “Way you were protecting your middle when you came in,” he said. “It wasn’t your figure,” he added, and she was startled to realise that he must have been watching her—had probably been watching everybody as they came in. Even as he spoke to her, the fake eye was scanning the room, moving independently of the one that was fixed on Molly. As the magical eye whirred around to rest on her bosom for just a moment, it occurred to her that Moody might be able to see through her robes. She suddenly felt self-conscious and sat down in the proffered chair, folding her fingers demurely in her lap. “Thank you,” she said, and Moody moved to stand behind her next to Arthur, who put a hand on her shoulder. The room hushed when Professor Dumbledore came in, Professor McGonagall following in his wake, and Molly thought she heard a soft grunt from one of the men behind her. She was surprised to see her old head of house at the meeting. A secret, not-strictly-authorised group wasn’t something Molly would have expected Professor McGonagall to have any part of. Then again, it was Professor Dumbledore’s group, and she was his deputy. And Alastor Moody was in it. “I’m sorry to keep everyone waiting,” Dumbledore said, moving to the head of the table. “Dedalus, might I ask you to give Minerva your seat?” he said to a short wizard with wild grey hair who was seated just to his right. “She has agreed to take the minutes and will need the table. Thank you.” The wizard stood and Professor McGonagall took his chair. “Let us start with introductions,” said Dumbledore. “Many of you already know one another, but some faces may be unfamiliar to the younger members of the group.” His eyes rested briefly on Molly, and he gave her the slightest hint of a smile. When everyone in the room had dutifully recited his or her name, Dumbledore got down to business. “Thank you all for coming down to Abercynon. I do apologise to those of you for whom the trip may have been difficult”—he glanced at a young woman who’d introduced herself as “Figg”, Molly recalled—“but Eamon was kind enough to lend his home, which is Unplottable. We may have cause to be grateful for that in due course.” “Only benefit of being the son of a disgraced Minister for Magic,” said Professor Jones, and a nervous chuckle went around the room. Dumbledore ignored it and continued: “You all know why we are here. Each of us has his own reasons for electing to join this group, but we all share a common purpose: to quell the Darkness that threatens to take hold of our world. It will not be easy, and it will not win you any friends. The anti-Muggle sentiment that fuels this movement goes far beyond the ideology of a small group of terrorists. It pervades our society at the highest levels, and while it may not drive decent men to do evil, too often it allows them to ignore it in others. We have seen some unfortunate examples of this lately.” “Too bloody right!” said Caradoc, and a murmur went around the table. Molly’s fists began to clench in her lap as she remembered the farce that had been Crispian Goyle’s trial. It was no “accident” that had killed her dearest friend. Goyle had done it because Ginevra DiFillipis was a Muggle-born, and he could. His best mate’s father sat on the Wizengamot, and his aunt had the ear—among other things, it was whispered—of the Undersecretary to the Minister. But there was no one to speak for Ginevra. Her parents weren’t even allowed at the trial. Molly had tried to visit them in the aftermath of Ginevra’s death, but they were so lost and bewildered by what had happened to their only daughter that it was nearly impossible to have a conversation with them. They just kept asking Molly to explain, over and over again, how a necklace could kill a strong, healthy twenty-four-year-old woman. Molly was ashamed that she hadn’t been back to visit them since. Dumbledore held up a large hand to quiet the group. “I will warn you now,” he said, “that vigilantism won’t be tolerated. Vengeance must not be our purpose. It would only serve as a distraction. Which brings me to the first order of business: we must define our immediate aims.” The meeting went on for two hours, and by the end of it, Molly’s bladder was nearly bursting. Fortunately, Dumbledore called the meeting adjourned just as she began to think she might not make it to the toilet before pissing herself. As the group began to break up, Molly pushed her way past Arthur, who was chatting near the doorway with Benjy. She whispered, “Loo,” in his ear, but when she got out into the hallway, she saw four people in a queue that could only be for the bathroom. She got in the back of it, her weight shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. Miss Figg came to stand behind her and said quietly, “I have it on good authority that there’s another one upstairs.” Molly gave her a grateful smile and hurried up to find it. Five minutes later she was slightly lighter and considerably more comfortable. As she moved down the dark hallway toward the staircase, she was stopped by the sound of voices from a room whose door was slightly ajar. “ … what he was thinking, dragging you along.” Alastor Moody’s voice, Molly thought, and he sounded angry. “He didn’t. I am capable of making my own decisions, thank you very much.” That was definitely Professor McGonagall’s angry brogue. Molly didn’t intend to eavesdrop, but she couldn’t help being curious, and she didn’t want to embarrass the pair by letting them know they were being overheard. She shrank back, meaning to go back into the bathroom until the coast was clear, when Moody said, “Well, I won’t have it. You’re to stay out of it, do you understand me?” That stopped Molly mid-step. She couldn’t have imagined anyone talking that way to Professor McGonagall, and she both wanted and didn’t want to hear the inevitable explosion. Instead, there was a short silence, then she heard a floorboard creak and Moody’s voice saying, “Minerva, please …” He sounded plaintive this time. Professor McGonagall’s voice was calmer than Molly would have expected. “You’ve no right to forbid me to do anything. Do you understand me, Alastor Moody? You aren’t my father. Nor my husband.” “Not fer lack o’ tryin’.” “Let’s not hash that over again—” “You’re the one brought it up.” “Well, I’m sorry,” Professor McGonagall said. “But to the subject at hand, I will be part of this. I am part of it, whether I’m officially in the Order or not.” “Yeah, but I’m just askin’ you—don’t make a target of yerself. It’s enough that people know you’re Dumbledore’s right hand and my … whatever you want to call what we are to each other.” “Lover?” Professor McGonagall sounded amused. So the rumours are true, Molly thought. She wasn’t surprised in the least, but it gave her an odd feeling in the pit of her belly to hear Professor McGonagall say it just like that. Moody said, “Yes, damn it. And doesn’t that give me some right to ask you not to do this?” “Yes,” she said, so quietly that Molly almost missed it. “You have the right to ask, Alastor. You always have that right.” “And you have the right to disregard it, is that what you’re saying?” “Not to disregard it, no. But I’ve thought about it. And I simply can’t sit by and let others do this without me. Not when I can help. I understand your feelings, and I love you for them, but this is something I must do for myself.” Molly smiled at that. “Why?” asked Moody. “Because this pure-blood mania harms people. And not just Muggles and Muggle-borns. The mess I managed to make of my life had its roots in exactly the kind of prejudice and elitism that reduces witches to bargaining chips and broodmares.” Mess? Professor McGonagall? And what was that about broodmares? Molly’s hands went unconsciously to her belly again. She knew she should move quietly through the hall and down the stairs, but somehow she found herself still rooted to her spot near the bathroom door. She almost didn’t hear what Moody said next, so quiet was his voice. “So your life’s a mess, is it?” “You know I don’t mean it that way.” “I’m not sure what you mean these days, Minerva.” The door began to open wider, and Molly quickly turned to make as if she were shutting the bathroom door behind her as Moody stepped out into the hallway. He looked over at her and crooked her a sad smile, and Molly felt as if he knew she’d been eavesdropping. She could feel herself blushing, but Moody didn’t say anything. He just trudged heavily down the hall and disappeared down the stairwell. Molly wondered if Professor McGonagall would come after him, but she didn’t, so after a few moments, Molly followed Moody down the stairs. All evening, as she tried in vain to soothe a fussy Charlie to sleep, Molly thought about what Professor McGonagall had said. She didn’t tell Arthur what she’d overheard, but later that night, when they lay whispering in bed in their tiny flat, she told him the same thing she’d heard Professor McGonagall tell Moody: that she needed to be part of the fight against evil because it didn’t just hurt people like Ginevra DiFillipis. “It’ll hurt our boys too,” she said. “And this one. Especially if she’s a girl.” Molly patted her belly. “What do you mean, Mols?” Arthur asked. She turned over in bed and put a hand on his chest. “You and I are lucky. Our families didn’t care who we married. But my parents were in an arranged marriage. Were yours?” “I don’t know. Maybe.” “This pure-blood rot, it’ll send things backwards. If they have their way, they’ll make laws governing who can and can’t marry. Maybe even force pure-blood witches to marry pure-blood wizards.” “That’s ridiculous,” said Arthur. “No, it isn’t. That’s how it was only what, a hundred years ago? Do you want little Ginny to have to marry some Nott or Malfoy instead of a boy she might really love just because she has the right blood and that git Lucius wants a grandson with a pristine pedigree?” “‘Little Ginny’?” “That’s what I want to call her,” said Molly, feeling a little defensive. “If it’s a girl.” She relaxed when Arthur said, “‘Ginny’. I like it.” Molly could hear the smile in his voice. “Especially since my grandfather fully expects it to be ‘Percy’ if it’s a boy.” After a moment, he added, “And our Ginny can marry whomever she likes. Or no one at all. We’ll make sure of it.” Molly moved her body up against his and kissed his mouth. “Do you suppose it’d wake Charlie if we were to fool around?” she asked. His hand moved to her breast and began to toy with her nipple. “Not if you can manage to be quiet this time.” “Yes,” she breathed. “I’ll be quiet as a Puffskein.” ~oOo~ Albus Dumbledore sat by the fire in his quarters smoking a long pipe. He always felt a bit of a traitor, preferring Balkan Sobranie to the English wizarding blends sold in Diagon Alley, but there it was. He’d only ever taken one Muggle lover, but that one had left indelible traces. The meeting had gone well. And he’d been surprised by the number of people there, especially the young folks. It warmed Albus’s old heart to realise that they cared passionately about the plight of Muggles and Muggle-borns despite that fact that most of them were too young to remember the previous war and the pangs that accompanied the birth of their new, “modern” wizarding society. That there was a subtle but distinct backlash now was no surprise. Most of the Wizengamot was still old guard, and old prejudices died hard, no matter the lip service paid to progressive ideals. But their children … ah, they were the battleground now, and Albus intended to give no quarter. His thoughts were interrupted by a knock. When he opened the door, he was surprised to see Minerva standing there. “I have the minutes from the meeting,” she said. “May I come in?” “Of course, my dear,” said Albus, “but I didn’t expect the minutes this evening.” “I had some time,” she said, handing him a roll of parchment. She went over to the fire, holding her hands out in front of it to warm them. He put the parchment on the table and said, “I thought you’d be staying in London tonight. Pomona is watching your house.” “I know. But my plans changed.” “I see,” he said, searching her face, but there was nothing to see. He said, “Well, since you’re here, maybe you’d fancy a game of chess?” Her features lifted at that, and he knew he’d been right not to press her about the reason for her unexpected appearance in his quarters. She wanted his company, and she’d get around to telling him about whatever was troubling her in her own time, if at all. That was the pattern of their friendship, and it seemed to work. Minerva was a different woman from the one who’d calmly bamboozled Albus into fathering her son thirty years ago, but in some respects, she remained very much the same. They played, and he could tell her mind wasn’t entirely on the game. That was part of the pattern too. Minerva McGonagall’s emotions were almost never less than carefully masked, but they could often be sussed out by looking at the way she moved her pieces around the chessboard. An aggressive opening gambit was a declaration of anger, though not always at Albus. Timid game play, with her queen too carefully guarded, announced doubt or trepidation. Careless, distracted moves told Albus that she was conflicted or distressed. As her rook fell to an obvious move of Albus’s knight, he knew it was the latter. Twenty-two minutes later, Minerva’s white king removed his crown and set it down before Albus’s bishop, and she sighed in what sounded to Albus like relief. “Are you quite well, my dear?” he asked. She turned back to him from the window she’d been staring out of. “I’m sorry?” “I asked if you were well. I got the impression that your mind wasn’t on the game.” “I’m sorry,” she said. “I suppose I wasn’t exactly a challenging opponent this evening.” “Somewhat less challenging than usual,” he said. “Is there something on your mind?” She sighed again. “Nothing and everything.” “Would a cup of tea help?” he asked. “A cup of tea always helps,” she replied, and he went to get the tea things himself rather than summoning a house-elf. He thought she might want the time to make up her mind to unburden herself and busied himself with fetching and warming the water and measuring the tea into the pot. When the tea had steeped, he poured out, and she took her cup, warming her hands on it for a moment before taking a sip. As she gazed into the fire, Albus stayed silent, considering her face. At forty-eight, she was better looking than she had been at thirty, he thought. Still slim and angular in her features, she no longer seemed as hard. Her face had largely lost its wariness, and the near grimace that had been a seemingly permanent fixture when she’d first come back to Hogwarts was far less often in evidence. She was as pale as ever, but not drawn, and the frown-lines that had been so striking on a thirty-year-old woman had recently been joined by fine wrinkles around her eyes that hinted that in the intervening years, smiling had also been part of her repertoire of facial expressions. Lately, though, Albus had again caught sight of the old grimace, and it worried him. She turned back to him, and he put his cup down, ready to listen to whatever she chose to say. She took another sip of her tea and said, “Alastor doesn’t want me in the Order.” “Oh?” “It’s too dangerous, he says.” “He has a point.” “I can take care of myself, Albus.” “Of course. But I understand his concern. He’s seen what the kind of men we’re fighting are capable of.” “That’s just it,” she said. “He’s seen too much, I think. He’s always been touchy, but lately …” She shook her head. “Lately he’s been almost impossible. Always looking over his shoulder. He doesn’t even relax when we’re alone. It’s almost as if …” The grimace made an appearance on her face, and she looked away from Albus again. When she turned back to face him, her face was blotched with pink. She swallowed audibly and said, “It’s as if he expects me to curse him.” Albus frowned. “I’m sure that’s not it.” “Can you blame him?” She didn’t often refer to what she’d done to her husband, but Albus knew it still weighed on her heavily. Alastor’s reaction to Minerva’s confession had been more or less as Albus had expected it would be. Albus had been quite sure Alastor wouldn’t turn her in, even if Moody himself hadn’t been at first. What she had done was … surprising, yes, but hardly unforgivable. In fact, Albus had been immensely relieved when he had discovered that she had only Transfigured Macnair rather than killed him and covered it up. The familiar electric sensation of guilt pinged at him for a moment when he thought of what he had done, but he had become adept at shaking it off. If she ever found out about the Legilimency, she might never forgive him—possibly with reason—but he had needed to be sure. The idea that Minerva might have murdered Macnair had crossed Albus’s mind more than once as the years had passed with no word of what had become of him. Albus had pushed such thoughts forcefully aside. He had ultimately come to the same conclusion Alastor had: that Macnair had likely been killed by his creditors. And like Alastor, Albus had been puzzled by the lack of a body. But eventually, he had packed his concerns away as he and Minerva had settled into their friendship, and they hadn’t arisen again, even when he’d discovered her deception about Malcolm. Until Alastor had brought him that report. What he had read in it had been more than surprising. And it had once again stirred up the idea that Minerva had perhaps had something to do with Macnair’s disappearance. Albus hadn’t believed her a murderer—not really—but he had to be certain. So he had looked into her mind. He saw everything she’d later shown to Alastor and him, but more than that, he’d seen her desperation and her absolute certainty that the people most important to her would revile her once they’d discovered her secrets. And Albus had felt ashamed of his doubts. When Minerva had shown them the memory, Albus had been reassured by Alastor’s reaction, but now it seemed that, like many secrets, the ones Minerva had kept had worked like a Dark and subtle philtre, slowly poisoning her relationship with Moody. He felt unutterably sad for both of them. “Alastor is not afraid of you, Minerva,” he said. “No,” she said. “He’s afraid of himself.” Yes, Albus thought, with some surprise. That’s it precisely. ← Back to Chapter 29 On to Chapter 31→ Chapters of Slant-Told Tale, A